


approximately one in fifty executions by electrocution are botched

by yandereraiden



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Ass to Mouth, Come Marking, Creampie, Electrocution, Gender-neutral Reader, Glove Kink, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Size Kink, Spit As Lube, Torture, Watersports, human urinal, like i cannot stress "hard noncon" enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yandereraiden/pseuds/yandereraiden
Summary: You’re lying on a cold, stone floor in a cold, stone room, which means that most likely, you’re a prisoner of war.





	approximately one in fifty executions by electrocution are botched

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to my volginfuckin' pals whose thirst convinced me to finish this

It was a fucking ambush that got you. 

 

You were patrolling a supposedly unoccupied section of the jungle with your platoon when it happened. Volkov was leading as usual, stiff-necked and sharp eyed, but by this point, even he, fanatic patriotism and all, had to admit that sending you out to scout a strategically useless, resource-bare scrap of land thirty miles from the nearest allied base was wasteful. You, personally, couldn’t have cared less. You paid lip service to the patrol, only barely paying attention, choosing to instead fool around with Pavshin in the back of the formation.

 

The first shots must have been silenced, because you barely hear anything before the people at the front of the formation drop to the ground. Even after that, it takes a moment for you to realize exactly what just happened, and by that point, your squadmates are already raising their rifles, shouting orders to spread out. You fumble with your own gun, stumbling off to the side behind a tree as the forest comes alive with the flashes of gunshots, and the sound of men yelling.

 

It’s chaos. You can’t tell who’s where, you don’t know where you’re being shot from, and you don’t even know who it is attacking you. All you can tell is your friends are dropping like flies around you, one after another.

 

With a wet  _ thump,  _ Pavshin, who ducked behind the same tree as you did, goes down. You watch his body fall, feeling sick to your stomach, and in the rush of the moment, you don’t even realize that you’ve been shot as well until you try to raise your gun and find that you can’t move your right arm. 

 

You glance down for a moment, and notice that there’s a hole about the size of a small coin in your shirtsleeve, and the skin of your forearm. It doesn’t hurt, strangely enough. There’s a weird, tingling numbness around it, but it doesn’t hurt.

 

“Shit,” you say, and your knees promptly buckle, sending you unconscious to the ground.

 

-

 

The next thing you feel is something cold and hard against the side of your face, and an awful, shooting pain in your shoulder. Your body twitches, and you immediately roll over onto your back, wheezing. It hurts, it fucking hurts, like someone’s driving railroad spikes into your flesh, and you have to bite your lip to prevent yourself from screaming as whatever it is that’s doing this to you makes your shoulder throb. Your eyes shut, and when you open them again, your vision is blurry with tears.

 

Taking a few shuddering breaths, you force yourself to calm down, focusing on the facts. You’re alive, for one thing, unless this is some strange, personal hell. You’re inside- the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling gave that one away. You’re lying on a cold, stone floor in a cold, stone room, which means that most likely, you’re a prisoner of war.

 

That’s all you can say for sure. You don’t know where you are or who has you captive. You don’t know if your squadmates are still alive- although it seems optimistic to assume yes. And you don’t know what whoever has you prisoner wants out of you.

 

When you’ve calmed down a little, and the throbbing in your shoulder has slightly subsided, you try sitting up. It’s a slow process- the combination of having laid on the floor for so long and recent major blood loss makes you nearly pass out, and your arm, the one that got shot, is stiff and unhelpful. Eventually, you manage to prop yourself up against the nearby stone wall, groaning quietly as you take a good look around for the first time.

 

You’re in a cell. That much you’d guessed already, but the iron bars blocking the only way out of the tiny room confirm it. There’s an uncomfortable-looking cot attached to the wall in the corner, next to a bucket that the purpose of is fairly clear. Even for a jail cell, it’s bare bones.

 

Your shoulder throbs again, and you groan, loud enough that the sound attracts the attention of a guard you didn’t notice standing outside of the cell. He’s wearing green GRU fatigues and a balaclava, and holding an AK as he peers at you.

 

“You’re still alive,” he says, matter of factly. 

 

“Where-” your voice comes out harsh and grating, and you have to stop for a moment to give a hacking cough. “Where am I? Who are you?”

 

The guard ignores your questions. “The colonel will be here to speak with you shortly,” he replies before turning back around.

 

_ The colonel. _ Your stomach drops at the words. Given where you are and what’s happening to you, there’s only one person that could reasonably be. The leader of the most prominent, dangerous anti-Khruschev faction. Thunderbolt. Volgin. 

 

You know enough about the man- or at least enough of his reputation- to know that you are absolutely, one hundred percent fucked.

 

“If I was in your position, I would deem it wise to try and get as much rest as possible,” the guard mentions. He’s still not looking at you, but his voice sounds a little more sympathetic. He probably knows what’s going to happen to you better than you do, if he’s had decent experience with the prisoners here.

 

It’s a good idea. You can barely get to your feet, and when you manage to, it takes effort to make it all the way to your cot without passing out. When you do finally collapse on it, the ragged cotton blanket that serves as a mattress feels like a cloud to your bruised, aching body, and within minutes, you fall into fitful, but well-needed sleep.

 

-

 

The next time you wake up, you’re not in the cell anymore. You’re in a dark, damp room, lit by a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Incidentally, you’re  _ also _ hanging from the ceiling- wrists bound together by heavy cuffs, held up by a thick, metal chain. Your shoulders are cramping something awful from holding the weight of your body up, and you assume that’s what woke you, until you shift slightly and feel the cold, wet fabric plastered to your body. 

 

“Ugh.” You groan indelicately, and your tongue feels like it’s made of lead. All of your body feels leaden, actually, either numb and fuzzy or throbbing rawly. Shaking your head, you gaze blearily around you, trying to assess where you are, and why.

 

“Awake? Good. Very good.” Your head whips in the direction of the voice, giving you nothing but a pulled muscle. Whoever is speaking deliberately positioned himself behind you, and panic rises in your chest as you desperately try to see who has you captive, to no avail. His voice is deep, and the sound of his boots as he walks closer to you is heavy and threatening. That’s all you know. 

 

“Who are you?” You croak out. “What do you want with me?”

 

In any other scenario, you might have found it somewhat funny that your only conscious minutes of the last week or so have been spent asking the same questions to different people. Right now, you’re flat-out terrified, a feeling that is only elevated when a leather-gloved hand grabs your chin, squeezing your jaw as it turns your head around to look at the man holding you captive.

 

“I want you to talk to me.”

 

You’ve never seen him before in your life, but even still, you know who he is. He’s tall- taller than you for sure, broad shouldered in a way the olive-colored uniform only accents further. Older than you also, but the type of age that hasn’t been softened by a cushy military desk job. His body is lean, thick arms and neck bulging with muscle, and he watches you with a hard-eyed smirk, lips curling up despite the grotesque mass of scar tissue knotting half his face.

 

“C-colonel-” you stutter, before you can stop yourself. His smirk becomes even more smug as he turns your head back and forth with his hand.

 

“It appears my reputation precedes me. I can’t say the same for you, though.” Fingers, squeezing your jaw. “Name and rank, soldier.”

 

You tell him, snapping the answers out as you were trained to in case of capture. He has the look of a predator about him, one who likes to play with his food, and you instinctively flinch back from it.

 

“Good. That was the easy one.” He smiles like a shark as he pats you on the cheek condescendingly, the leather of his gloves coupled with his natural strength making each light touch carry so much more weight. “They’re only going to get harder from here, however.” He grips your jaw again, moving into your personal space. You would have backed off if you’d had the option, but it’s not really possible with your arms tied up as they are. Any effort to move sends you sliding back on the slightly slippery floor, arms aching. “Who sent you?”

 

That’s not the question you expected. You blink, confused- he doesn’t want to know why you’re here, or where your base is, or anything else that you actually know. He wants to know where… your patrol orders come from?

 

“It’s just a routine operation, sir,” you explain, and his eyes flash.

 

_ “Lies.” _

 

The predatory look doesn’t leave Volgin’s face. Rather, it changes, going from feeling like he’s toying with you, to feeling like he’s got his teeth around your neck, and he’s about to bite. His hand moves down, around your neck, and he squeezes, so sudden and unexpected that you don’t react until you feel your windpipe start to collapse, eyes widening in fear. You’re overwhelmed by the twin feelings of suffocation and utter helplessness, and the black spots appearing in your vision could either be from the increasing lack of oxygen, or from the panic seeping into you, making your arms and legs seize up.

 

Volgin lets go, and you nearly dislocate your arms doubling over, swinging forwards slightly on your chains as you gasp for breath. Your heart is fluttering with a fear you haven’t felt in years, and you’re barely paying attention when Volgin starts speaking again, as if nothing happened.

 

“I know one of my senior officers is conspiring against me. I know he’s been working with your commanders to pass along information and try and sabotage me. You’re going to tell me  _ who it is.” _

 

He punctuates the sentence by punching you in the guts, knocking the wind you’ve just barely recovered out of you again. It hits with the force of a cannonball, propelling you back several inches as well, and your eyes cross before fluttering shut. You feel bile work its way up the back of your throat, but you swallow it down, grimacing.

 

“I… don’t… know…” You wheeze, and he punches you again, in the same spot. Tears spring to the corners of your eyes, and you bend over on his fist, coughing hard. Thick saliva drips from between your lips. 

 

“There’s nothing around here for a good twenty miles. You wouldn’t have been sent to scout  _ nothing,”  _ he hisses. “Where are these orders coming from?”

 

You don’t say anything this time- you shake your head frantically,  _ no, no, I don’t know, I can’t help you, _ and he unceremoniously backhands you. Your head snaps to the right, cheek stinging and red. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the punch, but it makes you dizzy, eyes watering as your stare at the floor and try to get your stomach under control.

 

“It’s- it’s routine- we’re in border territory-”

 

Nothing you say is helping your cause. He grabs your damp shirt by the collar and tears it straight off your body, not giving you a chance to recover in the slightest before he rams his fist into your abdomen again. This time, there’s a humming, the scent of ozone, and a numbing, buzzing pain shooting from your stomach all the way to your extremities. With a howl, you writhe, arms and legs shaking beyond your control as he electrocutes you.

 

Volgin doesn’t use any sort of device to do it. If you thought you had any chance of making it back to your base alive, you might have been excited about being able to confirm that the rumors about the colonel being some sort of witch are true.

 

It lasts ten seconds that feel like an eternity. When he pulls his fist back, you vomit, bile burning your throat on the way up. There are flecks of blood in it, shiny, red, and with terrifying implications for the state of your internal organs. Your entire body feels like one gigantic injury, every part of you twitching or throbbing in pain, and you struggle for the umpteenth time to catch your breath, gasping because breathing through your nose fills your head with the scent of burnt flesh.

 

Distantly, you remember your bootcamp days. They used to force you to run laps until you collapsed. One of the first times you went through that, you rolled your ankle, tripped over your own feet, and lost control of your bladder in your exhaustion, pissing in your uniform in front of the rest of the trainees and your drill instructor. You used to think pain and humiliation like that was cruelty, but it had a purpose, at the least. Your CO’s tortured you to make you stronger. They were predictable in that way- if you got stronger, you would be able to handle whatever they threw at you, and eventually they would move on.

 

If you did what your CO’s wanted, you could avoid pain. You don’t even know what Volgin wants. Even if he truly doesn’t believe what you’ve been telling him, that you don’t know the information he’s been asking for, it doesn’t explain why he’s brutalizing you to this degree. He isn’t a weak man- he could have easily killed you, had you been slightly more fragile. As it was, you nearly bit your tongue out.

 

Over the sound of your own whimpering, you hear him breathing heavily, harsh and unrestrained. For a minute, you think he must not be as fit as he looks, if this is exhausting him that easily, but when you turn your head back around, you get a better look at him. At the rictus grin spread ear to ear, white teeth flashing at you. At the bulge in his fatigues, clearly visible against his thick thighs, straining against the olive fabric.

 

“Liar,” he growls, and this time, his voice is low and breathy. You’re helpless before him- half naked, bound by your wrists, body still twitching limply as he drags his hand from your abused stomach up to your chest. The feeling is uncomfortably intimate, and the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for guessing what he wants from you  _ now. _

 

“Sir, pl-”

 

There’s a knock at the door. It’s hesitant, but it’s loud enough to make Volgin jerk away from you, whirling around to face the interruption. With a grunt of irritation, he stalks away from you, and you breathe out heavily, relaxing as much as is currently physically possible for you. 

 

Volgin throws open the door, and the groaning metal makes you wince. “What is it?” It’s not a question so much as it is a demand, thinly laced with a threat.  _ This better be worth my time. I was enjoying myself. _

 

The man at the door is shorter than Volgin (not a hard feat- you’d put the colonel at a good seven feet, if someone asked), but he stands tall as he salutes, unable to keep the grin off of his face.

 

“Colonel. We found him,” he says, voice shaking in excitement, a far cry from the way he had knocked. Volgin’s posture changes almost imperceptibly, and when he turns to face you again, he’s grinning too. It doesn’t make him look happy. It makes him look terrifying, hooding his eyes over and stretching the scars on his cheek in a manner that you can only assume is horribly painful.

 

He approaches you again, and you flinch back, but all he does is produce a small key from one of his uniform pockets, and raise it above your head. A moment later, your arms are released, painful and stiff as they are from being held in one uncomfortable position as he beat the hell out of you. You rub at the thick red bands around your wrists, blinking as you try to comprehend what’s going on around you. You don’t even get a chance to ask before he disappears, coattails swirling as he leaves the room and slams the heavy door shut behind him.

 

You’re left staring after him, mouth open, question on your lips that you don’t get a chance to ask. Then, you collapse, knees buckling, a bit of a delayed reaction that still manages to surprise you, despite the amount of inhuman stress your body has been under. You’re still conscious, but your body is weak and shaking, sitting in a small puddle of water, dirty with mud and flecks of your blood. It’s disgusting, but you physically cannot move anymore than to pull your legs up to your chest.

 

“Oh fuck,” you wheeze, rocking slightly. “Oh shit. Fuck.”

 

Swearing isn’t going to heal your internal bleeding, or get you out of this godforsaken fortress, but it makes you feel a little better about the absolute shitfest of a situation you’re in.

 

While you’re alone, you take the time to collect yourself, making sure your bones are all in place, rubbing feeling back into your extremities. The internal bleeding you have no way to help- you just have to deal with the pain and hope that whatever the hell Volgin did to you only damaged you a little. When you feel well enough to move a little, you scoot out of the puddle and crawl shakily over to the corner, propping your sore back up against the wall with a sigh. Even that little bit of relief is a comfort.

 

Despite the pain you’re in, you end up dozing off for a little while, head lolling back. It’s fitful at best, but you need it, and when the metal door slams open, you bang your head against the stone wall behind you as you jerk awake.

 

“Fuck,” you groan, vision going blurry, making you unable to really see what’s going on in front of you for a few seconds. You catch an intimidating, olive colored blob which you assume must be Volgin, and a smaller, olive colored shape being pushed into the cell by him. As everything comes back into focus, you see that it’s a person- an older man, wearing the same type of uniform as Volgin, albeit without many of his decorations. He trips, stumbles, and lands clumsily on the floor before scuttling towards one of the walls, clearly desperate to put as much space between himself and Volgin as he possibly can, and you can see that his nose and brow are both dripping blood.

 

Part of you wants to feel sorry for him. Most of you is just glad it’s not you anymore.

 

“Please-” The new man’s voice is hoarse- he sounds like he’s been screaming, and you wince, slightly. “It wasn’t me, I swear, I’ve been nothing but loyal, I’ve always-”

 

His words are cut off by Volgin grabbing his head, which easily fits into the palm of Volgin’s massive hand. There’s a murderous glee in his eyes, and you want to look away, you know you  _ need  _ to look away to avoid whatever horrible thing happens next.

 

But you don’t. You sit there and stare, openmouthed, as Volgin slams the man’s head against the wall. The first time, you know he’s still alive because you hear the bloodcurdling scream he lets out as he gets half-crushed. The second time, it’s less clear. The third time, he’s absolutely dead- his head is half red pulp, dripping down the wall, blood and what you assume must be brain matter dripping from the shattered remains of his skull. He’s not screaming anymore, and when Volgin lets go of him, his body collapses unceremoniously to the floor. Unconsciously, you curl up a little tighter against the wall. 

 

There’s silence for a moment, save for the sound of Volgin breathing heavily, and your own heart, pounding uncontrollably. You’re both fixated on the fresh corpse on the ground, still twitching slightly.

 

You realize your own breathing has stopped. You’re in full “prey” mode, hoping that if you don’t move, if you don’t make any noise, he won’t notice you. Maybe torturing you and brutalizing this man is enough to sate him, as long as you don’t do anything to make yourself into a viable target.

 

There’s an awful wrenching feeling in your guts, and you lean over to the side and throw up, again. With nothing left in your stomach, it’s just a vile mixture of acid and phlegm that burns like hell and makes your head pound horribly as you retch. When you look up, his gaze is on you. It’s so intense you physically recoil, curling around yourself, squeezing your arms and legs close to your chest. It’s like staring down a bear- except a bear wouldn’t have enjoyed crushing a man’s skull to pieces. 

 

His footsteps are heavy as he strides towards you, loud and purposeful. You twist over onto your side, and try to crawl away, but the little energy sleep returned to you doesn’t make you fast enough to avoid him, and he grabs you by the hair, hauling you painfully backwards.

 

_ “No,”  _ you gasp, hands scrabbling on the stone floor, but all you manage to do is give yourself broken nails and scratch up the palms of your hands. “Stop,  _ stop, _ get away-” 

 

You kick back at him, and Volgin catches your ankle like it’s  _ nothing, _ wrenching your leg out to the side and holding it there with a single hand. He’s fucking massive, and when he shoves you down onto the floor, you don’t have the strength to resist it. That doesn’t stop you from trying, though, shaking and writhing away from him, trying to get him off of you, until he presses his hips into your backside and you freeze.

 

He’s hard. That much you’d known already. What you hadn’t known was his  _ size.  _

 

With a pleased humming noise, Volgin rubs himself against you, letting you get well acquainted with the monster he’s packing in his fatigues. You squirm away, feeling sick, but the motion just seems to make him more excited, and he chuckles lowly before grabbing your neck, pushing your head further against the floor, restricting your airflow.

 

“Get off- of me-” you wheeze, before the pressure of his hand threatens to collapse your windpipe. The leather of his glove is cold and impersonal as it chokes the life out of you again.

 

“I should thank you,” Volgin growls, grinding your face down. You can feel new cuts opening up on your skin, stinging, blood dripping from your brow into your eye, and the buzz of electricity tingling through your body, just enough to make you shiver. “You helped me root out my traitor problem. One of my lieutenants didn’t like the fact that you were being imprisoned here.” He grabs you by your hair, turning your head to the pulpy mess of the officer Volgin killed just minutes ago. “He wanted me to free you. Said it would ‘send a message’.”

 

He laughs, dark, cruel, and genuinely amused. The last of the three is what disturbs you the most.

 

“I think killing him sends a better one. Don’t you agree?”

 

You’re still staring at the former lieutenant’s corpse when Volgin grabs the thin, ratty trousers you’re wearing by the waist, and  _ rips.  _ His strength has to be inhuman- a normal person wouldn’t have been able to shred through your clothes like that. Either way, you’re suddenly far more exposed than you were only seconds ago, the heavy bulge of his cock pressed right up against you, and you understand, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what’s about to happen to you. He’s going to rape you, violently, uncaringly, possibly repeatedly. He’s going to hurt you more, because _ that’s what gets him off. _ And when he’s finished, when he has no more use for your information or for your body, he’s going to kill you. You and the lieutenant will likely be disposed of in the woods nearby. Your file will be marked “MIA”, your family will be politely informed, and no one will ever find you.

 

There’s no  _ point  _ to this. You could have been anyone- had things gone differently, it might have been fucking Pavshin here, on his stomach, starting to sob uncontrollably as he was forced up onto his knees and two big, leather-clad, spit-slicked fingers worked their way into his asshole.

 

Instead, it’s you. Disgusted and horrified, you try to claw your way out from under him, but his other hand, the one that isn’t currently fingering you, grabs your right arm by the wrist and bends it behind your back, at an angle that makes you howl in pain. Deep down, you know the best thing to do would be not to scream, not to make any noise that indicates it hurts, but it fucking hurts. It hurts when his fingers thrust inside you without adequate lubrication. It hurts when Volgin flexes his arm muscles, bending and crushing your wrist until it’s broken and useless.

 

_ “Fuck,” _ you yelp, hiccupping. Tears are streaming down your face now, inelegant and awful.

 

“You can keep fighting, if you want,” he murmurs into your ear before biting your neck, something which would have been intimate had he not done it hard enough to make you bleed. His massive body cages you in on all sides, and with your crushed wrist and legs still weak from the earlier torture, it’s almost impossible for you to move. You’re still trying, though, because the alternative is unthinkable. “I enjoy watching you try.”

 

“You’re- a sick-  _ fuck.”  _ You’re not turned on in the slightest, not with all the pain and the fact that you’re flat-out terrified of him, at the combination of his sheer physical power, and utter disdain for the lives of those around him. You’ve heard stories about rapists who try to make their victims feel good, either to humiliate them, or out of some fucked up type of love. Volgin’s not that type of person- you don’t know if you’re relieved or horrified by it.

 

Volgin laughs again, before slamming your head against the floor, hard enough that you’re pretty sure you black out for a few seconds. The room is blurry and spinning, and you almost don’t notice him pull his fingers out of your ass.

 

When something hot, blunt, and  _ significantly _ bigger than a pair of fingers presses up against your hole, you  _ do  _ notice. Your eyes go from sliding shut to wide open, and you frantically twist to try and see what’s happening.

 

“No,” you say, “no, it’s too big, it’s not going to  _ fit.”  _ The cursory bit of prep work he did is nowhere near enough to prepare you to take something of that size- it’s going to  _ break _ you. You try your best to writhe away, to get back onto your stomach and out of his grasp, but Volgin fits an arm around your waist, pulling you back, onto his cock.

 

After all the pain you’d been through in the last few hours, after being shot, electrocuted, strangled, pummelled, and mutilated, you’d thought you knew the extent of how bad you could be hurt, but he proves you wrong one last time. You scream as it forces itself inside of you, the pinching, burning sensation jolting right through your body. It kind of feels like you’re being split in two, and there’s no way Volgin didn’t tear something, not with his size, with the inadequate preparation, with the sheer brute force of him entering you, but he doesn’t  _ care.  _ You’re just a warm, tight hole, a writhing, struggling body, a teary face that grates against the floor as he starts to move inside of you.

 

His thrusts are inelegant, brutal things, driving his hips against your ass, pulling him out until only the thick head of his cock is inside of you, and then pushing back in without preamble. Every slight movement feels like he’s scraping your guts with glass shards. He seems to be enjoying it, though, if the way he pants in your ear and his hands dig into your hips are any indications. The rough fabric of his uniform chafes your backside, adding insult to injury- he didn’t even bother to undress for this, any more than pulling his dick out of his pants.

 

“Would you look at that,” he says, voice slightly strained with how hard he’s fucking you, driving you back and forth along the floor. “Good for something after all.”

 

“Fuck you,” you grit out, and immediately regret it when electricity crackles over your skin, sharp and painful. Your muscles seize up, and Volgin groans as the resulting contractions tighten you up around him. He slams his hips home and does it again, and you can smell your skin burning under his touch. “Fuck- you.”

 

“Quite some mouth on you.” His left hand lets go of your hip, grabs your jaw, and slides two thick fingers between your lips. You glare at the floor, and bite down as hard as you can, but Volgin doesn’t seem to feel anything more than a slight pressure through his gloves. On the other hand, the bitter taste of leather and blood floods your mouth. “I should have fucked it when I had the chance.”

 

You want to say something like  _ I would have bitten your dick off,  _ but it comes out as a few muffled syllables and a thick strand of drool leaking out of your mouth down to your chin, something which Volgin clearly finds amusing, laughing and pressing down on your tongue, making you gag and retch. You can  _ feel  _ him twitch inside of you, relishing in debasing and humiliating you even further.

 

“Even if you were useless in providing me with information, you make an  _ excellent _ cocksleeve.” His thumb spreads your asscheeks apart, tracing roughly around your hole where it’s stretched almost impossibly wide around him. “Nice and tight on the inside. A good, chaste soldier before this, hmm?”

 

Even if his fingers hadn’t been in essentially your throat, you wouldn’t have answered him. Volgin doesn’t seem to care, however. His grunts and small noises of pleasure are growing louder, hips picking up speed as they slam into you over and over again. You’re beyond the point of feeling violated- that was when he first stuck his fingers inside of you. Now, you’re barely there- you’re watching yourself be raped in the third person, the sharp pain of every thrust the only thing anchoring your consciousness to your body.

 

It still feels disgusting when he comes inside of you, biting your shoulder bloody as he does. His cock throbs, and the load of cum he dumps into your abused, bleeding asshole is uncomfortably sticky and wet. There’s a lot of it, too- the last bit spurts onto the small of your back when he pulls out and drips down the cleft of your ass, viscous and unpleasant. Your hole is gaping, and you can feel it trickling out, over the inside of your thighs, hot like a brand.

 

Volgin makes an all-too satisfied noise, back rolling as he pulls away from you and stands up. Without him doing the minimum to hold you up, you go limp and collapse onto the floor ungracefully. Your limbs crumple beneath you, and you wheeze, sucking air down your unblocked throat. Lifting your head just enough to look over your shoulder at him, you see his lips moving, and it takes a moment for you to snap back to awareness enough to understand what’s coming out of his mouth.

 

“Good slut,” he says, sneering. He looks smug, self-satisfied, grin distorting his scarred face as he stares disdainfully down at your broken, well-used body, and you can barely manage the strength to glare back at him. Volgin’s cock is still hanging out of his pants, and you think that it’s absolutely unfair that it still looks intimidating soft- it’s still gigantic, and streaked with blood. Your blood.

 

He takes a step towards you, wrapping his hand around his shaft and tugging a few times. For a terrifying moment, you think he’s going to have enough energy for round two, but he stays steadfastly flaccid as he grabs your hair and yanks you up to a kneeling position. You hiss in pain, and Volgin fits his hand into your mouth again, prying your jaw open.

 

“If you bite me, I’ll break your teeth with a hammer,” he says. It’s not a threat. It’s a simple statement of fact. “So make sure you keep that pretty mouth of yours open.”

 

He slides his cock into your mouth, all the way to the back of your throat, and you nearly vomit when you taste your own blood, thick and metallic, mingled with the bitter, salty tang of his cum. It’s not as bad, however, as a moment later when he lets out a soft groan, and starts pissing. Most of it goes straight down your esophagus, and you struggle to swallow as fast as the stream comes, gagging and coughing around him, eyes watering again. The reaction draws another low chuckle out of Volgin, and he lets go of his limp dick, pinching your nose shut to watch you squirm.

 

He pulls out before he’s finished, and piss spurts over your face and down your bare chest, mixing with the rest of the filth on you. You barely register it- the world is very quickly vanishing around you, going fuzzy at the edges.

 

The last thing you feel before everything goes black is the leather of his glove patting your bloody, sweaty cheek with something that might be condescension. As your face crashes into the stone floor, you can’t really tell.


End file.
